


The Crossroads

by direSin



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Friendship, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:40:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25676731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/direSin/pseuds/direSin
Summary: Geralt drew rein, halting his mount.Dandelion joined him after a time, maneuvering the bay with an effort. “Is that an inscription on the stone?” He squinted. “It’s too bloody dark to see.”“Go left, lose your horse. Go right, lose your life. Go straight, lose yourself and find that which is lost,” the witcher read out loud.“Some choices,” Dandelion said.
Relationships: (past)Geralt/Triss, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt/Yennefer
Comments: 83
Kudos: 82





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story is set at some point after the end of BaW, under the premise that Geralt never showed up to Yennefer's djinn hunt. Naturally the books are the accepted canon and, for the purposes of this story, so is most of the games' narrative (except where it isn't). 
> 
> One of my reasons for writing this story is to do Dandelion and his friendship with Geralt justice. Dandelion is not a sorry hipster with a latent hard-on for Geralt. He's Geralt's closest friend who cares for him deeply - without secretly wanting to get in his pants. He's also a callous womanizer who at one point made cringy mockery of someone facing rape. And he's a man who not only understands beauty but is capable of creating it. That's the Dandelion I'm attempting to portray.
> 
> No part of the Netflix show has any bearing on this story and will ever have any bearing on anything I write in this fandom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who aren't aware: in canon Geralt's horses are always mares and all of them are named Roach. The original (Polish) name is _Plotka_ and it's distinctly feminine. But in w3, if the player chooses to take Ciri to see Emhyr and has Geralt refuse Emhyr's gold, he's instead gifted a horse, a black stallion.

A chill wind blew through the trees and lashed at his face. Dandelion hunched his shoulders, wishing he’d taken a cloak with him. The daylight had gone and charcoal-grey clouds swallowed the moon. He shivered and crossed his arms, trying to shield himself from another gust of wind. 

The quiet chink of hooves against stone beside him stopped; Geralt’s horse stood patiently waiting for instructions. It was a beautiful stallion, its sleek coat almost jet-black with a tint of bronze. He’d wondered if the witcher named it Roach anyway. 

He glanced over his shoulder and saw faint lights moving in the distance. “Probably a merchant caravan traveling late,” he said with a shrug. The last village they’d passed had no inn and he fervently hoped the long stretch of the open road would soon come to an end. His muscles were getting sore and numb from sitting in the saddle.

Without a word Geralt rode off the road. 

Dandelion sighed and tugged at the reins, turning to follow. It’d been over a year since he’d last seen the witcher. At a glance Geralt looked his old self... except that something was gone from his face. _It’s as if he’d never smile again_ , the bard thought humorlessly. 

They took refuge in the alder grove by the roadside. The wind was calmer here, between the trees, but the cool air buzzed with insects. Dandelion’s hands slackened on the reins even as the muscles in his back tightened. None too gracefully he clambered off his horse, trying to stretch. 

Geralt grasped the pommel and leaned forward to swing one leg over the stallion’s back, landing as lightly as if he had only been in the saddle a few minutes. “You didn’t happen to fuck some voevoda’s wife and get caught, did you?” he asked, frowning.

“Oh, how you wound me.” Dandelion placed a hand over his heart.

The witcher said nothing. 

“I don’t get caught, my friend.”

Geralt snorted. 

They waited behind the trees. Soon enough there came the low rumble of hooves getting closer. Dandelion peered between the branches. There were at least twenty men on horseback, several of them carrying lanterns. Their wavering light snatched a black-bearded face out of the darkness as the man spoke, "Shouldn't be more than an hour, Lucan." 

“You sure? You fuck up one more time and I'll make you regret it.”

“How was I to know he’s got a witcher stashed in his saddlebags?”

“How indeed,” Lucan sneered, “when you were earning yourself a fine case of pox from the local whore.”

The men around them guffawed. 

“You sure that one’s a witcher?” Lucan asked.

“M’sure,” a different man answered, thickset and red-haired. “Seen ‘im once, in White Orchard, some years back. Killed a griffin like it were nothin’, had hisself a drink or three and cut down a dozen folk. Tavern looked worse’n a slaughterhouse.” He spoke with a false joviality that disguised a hint of fear.

Dandelion’s bay gelding picked this moment to toss his head, making the leaves rustle. Geralt rested a hand on the bay’s neck to calm him.

Lucan spat on the ground. “Well, then, we ain’t messin’ with that witcher, not ‘less we have to. We catch the popinjay alone and go collect us the bounty. Got that?" 

"Got it, Lucan. You're the boss." 

Lucan grumbled something about the dark night and the rain, hardly audible over the wind and the clatter of hooves. The band had ridden past and the voices were starting to fade. 

When all traces of them vanished in the night the witcher, arms folded across his chest, turned to Dandelion. His expression promised murder.

Dandelion met it with an airy gesture; he was much practiced at ignoring Geralt’s glowering. “It wasn’t the wife,” he said solemnly. “The wife’s old and fat. It was the daughter.”

“Ah. Much better.”

“It was, I assure you. Her skin is like a peach - ”

“I hope Peaches was worth a night in the woods, in this weather,” Geralt snapped.

“Surely you don’t mean to hide from them? They’re nothing but brigands.”

“Your faith in me is touching, old friend, but did you perhaps notice their numbers? They are more than enough to simply pile up and sit on me.” 

“What happened to you, Geralt?” Dandelion made a show of looking him up and down. “Did you freeze your balls off in Kovir?” 

“I’ve no intention of picking a fight with those men,” the witcher grated. “They aren’t on the wrong side of this.”

There was no talking to him once he got like this, Dandelion knew from experience. As well change the subject. “How’s Kovir, by the way?” he wanted to know.

“Lovely this time a year, I imagine,” Geralt said flatly.

“And what was that about White Orchard?” 

That earned him a snarl choked with fury, “Are you asking me if I murdered a dozen people in a drunken fit?” 

“Well,” Dandelion surmised, with his best innocent face, “at least one thing is clear: Kovir sure as hell didn’t do your temper any favors.”

“Dandelion?”

“Yes?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“No, but -”

“I said shut up. Not another word. Unless you’d rather travel with Lucan and friends?”

The bard turned his face away, chewing on his bottom lip. After a moment he drew in air, then thought better of it and let it out in a sigh. 

A raindrop fell on his hand, and another. He looked up. The sky was a solid black now, the night pitch-dark. Dandelion swore under his breath. He was cold, tired and hungry, and the thought of getting soaked in the bargain wasn’t a welcome one. 

And to think the day had started out so well. First there’d been Peaches; he couldn’t be arsed to remember her name - assuming he’d ever asked - but she really did have wonderful skin. He’d stopped at the local tavern afterwards and there was Geralt of Rivia in the flesh, grumpier than a woken bear and drinking vodka before noon but not at all wintering in Kovir.

He had his foot in a stirrup when it occurred to him that Geralt wasn’t mounting up. “There must be an inn some short ways up the road,” he said plaintively. 

The witcher grunted.

“It’s starting to rain.”

“Suit yourself,” Geralt said and made a curt gesture toward the road.

Dandelion sighed again. “So what do you propose we do?”

“There’s a trail on the other side of the grove, going roughly east.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“The grove is too dense and too dark to ride through.”

“Your power of observation is astounding.”

“Fine.” Dandelion sighed for the third time and extracted his foot from the stirrup. “Lead the way. But if I break a leg - ”

“Watch your step,” the witcher advised.

“Thank you ever so much for this invaluable counsel.”

“Quit flapping your fool mouth and concentrate on walking. I’ve never known you to manage both. And if you do break a leg I’ll leave you behind.”

“You will not.”

“Try me.”

“For fuck’s sake, Geralt, when was the last time you got laid?”


	2. Chapter 2

The trail ran through a forest and was barely more than a footpath. Dandelion had to drop back some ways where he swore and bitched without pause as branches snagged at his fancy doublet while he struggled through. It was almost comforting; Geralt couldn’t have lost track of him if he tried.

The rain had ended as quickly as it had begun, then started up again, at last easing to a drizzle that promised to turn into sleet once the temperature dropped. High time to set camp for the night but the dense brush all around made that impossible. It didn’t improve the witcher's mood. 

Rainwater dripped from branches as his horse climbed the trail, emerging at last into a clearing overlooked by elm and pine. It seemed to exist only to house a massive boulder, moss-covered and weathered by sun and rain. Beyond it he could see the trail branching into three, each path plunging into the forest up ahead. He couldn't make out anything else for the canopy of trees overhead. Geralt drew rein, halting his mount. 

Dandelion joined him after a time, maneuvering the bay with an effort. “Is that an inscription on the stone?” He squinted. “It’s too bloody dark to see.” 

“ _Go left, lose your horse. Go right, lose your life. Go straight, lose yourself and find that which is lost,_ ” the witcher read out loud.

“Some choices,” Dandelion said.

“Peachy,” Geralt said.

The bard grimaced but, recognizing a battle he couldn’t win, chose not to comment. “Far be it from me to buy into this superstitious poppycock - ” Geralt kept silent, waiting. “Of the three, only one doesn’t sound too ominous.” 

“It’s also the only vague one.”

“I’ve no desire to die, let alone walk.”

Amused despite himself, the witcher shrugged. “Straight it is,” he agreed, nudging his horse forward. 

Within an hour they were picking their way along the side of a small lake, where a willow dipped its branches into dark water. The worst of the storm had passed, it seemed, and the moon was peeking through the clouds. Blue flowers sparkled in the soaking grass. 

Dandelion waited until they rounded a bend, bringing his mount alongside Geralt’s when there was room enough for two to ride abreast. Hardly a minute passed before he spoke up, “So why’d you leave Kovir?”

Geralt stifled a sigh, yielding to the inevitable. He was never under the illusion the silence could last, no more than he’d hoped to avoid the questions. “There wasn’t any point in staying,” he answered quietly.

“What the hell does that mean?”

For a moment he thought of Triss, of the resignation in her eyes. She had known it would happen and she had known that he knew it would happen. Gods, who had they been fooling? “I’d have as soon fallen on my sword.” 

“Ah. Succinct yet informative. I like it.”

“What do you want me to say? It wasn’t going to work.” His mouth twisted in self-deprecation. “It was never going to work.”

“Also a bear shits in the woods.” Dandelion’s tone was exasperated. Geralt shot him a questioning look and got an eyeroll for his trouble. “Geralt, I’ve known you for nigh on thirty years. And you’re only ever not miserable when Yennefer - ” Geralt sucked in a breath, a warning Dandelion blithely ignored. “You ought to have learned this by now. So why don’t you just go to her and tell her you’re sorry?”

The witcher had to look away, to swallow bitter laughter. “I wish it were that simple.” 

“It isn’t complicated. She’ll huff and she’ll puff, she’ll sneer and she’ll make you bend over backwards. But she’ll forgive you in the end.” The bard got nothing but silence for an answer; he didn’t let it deter him. “She’d forgiven you Fringilla, had she not?”

“She never knew,” Geralt said after a pause. 

Dandelion laughed. 

“What’s so amusing, pray tell?”

“You are. Geralt, the woman can read your mind.” Dandelion touched a forefinger to his temple. “Not that she’d need to, to know you’re lying. Yennefer is many things but daft isn’t one of them.”

The witcher scowled. “I didn’t think you liked her.”

“What does it matter if I like her? I’m not the one wallowing in misery whenever she isn’t around. Besides, Yennefer and I have made our peace.”

“Oh? When was that?”

“When she saved my life. That tends to leave an impression.”

“What are you talking about?” Geralt frowned in confusion.

“She didn’t tell you? I suppose she wouldn’t. Anyway, it was a long time ago.”

“She never said,” Geralt mused.

Dandelion spread his hands, as much as the reins allowed. “She’s not the sort.”

They continued without speaking for another league. Geralt rode staring straight ahead, eyes fixed on the darkness. Dandelion started whistling a tune, an old ballad of his, but must have sensed the witcher’s impulse to yell at him to shut up and soon stopped on his own. 

The trouble was, that left him free to talk. 

“Geralt, what happened with you and Yennefer? It seemed to be going well enough before you went to Skellige, and the next thing I know - ”

The witcher frowned at him. “Since when are you so invested in my love life?’

“Since always. Do you know, after nearly two decades I’m still implored to sing _The Witcher And The Sorceress_ on a regular basis. Perhaps it’s time for a fresh take?”

“Call it _The Silent Witcher_ ,” Geralt proposed.

“If you’re silent I can just make up whatever I like.”

“You’ll do that regardless.”

“Entirely true.” Dandelion bowed from the saddle, mocking. “So you might as well talk. I know you want to, deep down.”

“You know fuck all.” 

The bard didn’t spare him a glance. The galling thing was, he hadn’t been wholly wrong. It wasn’t that Geralt wanted to talk, exactly, but if held at swordpoint he might have been possibly forced to admit that the company did make him feel a little lighter.

Carefully keeping his head down he said, “She asked for my help with something and I - didn’t bother. She wasn’t very accommodating after that.” For weeks she’d spoken to him only as little as was necessary, apart from that scintillating conversation that ended with him having a swim in a freezing lake. Not that he blamed her. In hindsight it seemed so childish and petty. _You’re not the center of my world; watch me ignore you._ “And then, after the fight with the Wild Hunt, after Vesemir - They didn’t really get on, Vesemir and Yen. She’d thrown a bed out the window and he didn’t care for that - ”

“Would it by chance be the bed in which you fucked Triss?”

“If you’re going to interrupt - ” Geralt said primly.

“Oh, don’t sulk. Go on.”

“She tried to talk to me, after the funeral; to offer comfort, I suppose. But I - All I could think of was how they’d bickered and glared at each other and - I didn’t take it well. I said things - ” he trailed off.

“And she said things right back,” the bard chimed in, dry as old bones. “Naturally. And let me guess: when all was said and done, Triss was there to console you. Of course she was.” He flicked the witcher an incredulous look. “By the gods, Geralt, how is it that you make the same mistake over and over again?”

Geralt’s hands clenched on the reins, hard enough that the leather creaked. “Oh, I don’t know, Dandelion. Maybe if my friends hadn’t kept me in the dark for two years, while I couldn’t remember a thing - ” He breathed out, breathed in, forced his fingers to loosen their grip.

Dandelion had the grace to look away. He said softly, “She asked me not to tell you.”

“What?” Without meaning to, Geralt squeezed his mount’s flanks with his knees and the black horse wheeled. It took him several minutes to calm it. Dandelion held his gelding in check, waiting patiently.

“Triss,” he explained when they set off once more. “She said that talking to you about the past might have an ill effect on you; that you’d never be whole unless you regained your memories on your own. I imagine she said the same to Vesemir and everyone else.”

Clenching his jaw until it hurt, Geralt managed not to speak, not to scream his outrage. What she'd done - what he knew she'd done - was bad enough. But to learn she was responsible for this too? He’d spent years nursing this hurt, that those closest to him had so casually betrayed his trust. Turned out they weren’t to blame after all. He hoped, for her sake, that he and Triss Merigold never cross paths again.

“Geralt?” Dandelion kept his eyes lowered, refusing to meet his gaze. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I should have told you anyway. I should have known better.”

The witcher forced himself to take a deep breath, and another. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ve done nothing that needs forgiveness, my friend. It was I who should have known better.”

They rode in silence after that.


	3. Chapter 3

They kept a steady pace as the path veered south, then east again. Twice it had become too narrow to ride side by side and Dandelion had been reduced to staring at the witcher’s back. The drizzle had let up and the weave of branches and leaves overhead had thinned enough to allow the moonlight to filter in. But the cold wind bit into his skin, clammy under the damp clothing, and he was sore all over. Slouched in the saddle he could barely keep his eyes open. At this point he’d be perfectly willing to sleep in the mud if it came to it, or for that matter on a bed of nettles. He was about to say as much when he realized the witcher had slowed his mount. 

Dandelion blinked, trying to get his sluggish brain to work. The ground had taken a noticeable upward slope. He squinted through the gloom. A short distance ahead an outcropping of rock jutted into a ravine. 

“Are we finally done for the night?” he asked, sounding like a whiny five-year-old even to his own ears but unable to help himself.

Geralt twitched a shoulder, looking so disgustingly comfortable that, for a second, the bard contemplated murder. “If we can find someplace to make camp.”

“We’d better,” Dandelion muttered darkly. 

They turned off the path, passing by a moon-bleached fallen tree, and rode down the slope of a hill. Small pebbles crunched under the horses’ hooves. 

Dandelion’s heart twisted a little at the sight before him. Letting the reins go slack he reached out from the saddle to touch a cracked wall. “The elves made this,” he said quietly. 

“Be careful,” Geralt warned. “It might be unstable.” He caught the reins of Dandelion’s mount, glancing around uneasily. 

Once there had been walls and spires, twin towers rearing, rising tall and proud above the ravine. But the walls had been breached and the spires lay broken and hardy grass had grown through the marble flagstones. The wind made a mournful sound in the ruins.

They dismounted at a deserted plaza where a fountain used to play. The wall behind it had collapsed, along with the intricate series of bridges that joined the spires, and great slabs of white marble had slid from it, exposing granite underneath. 

It was a desolate place. It must have come to ruin a long time ago and the forest had reclaimed it since. Moonlight lay in patches over the wiry tangle of the underbrush, the shattered columns blanketed in leafy vines. Bird nests rested in the toppled towers, a mess of twigs protruding.

Under the roof of a summer pavilion, surprisingly intact, the witcher set to laying fire. Emergent firelight revealed the lines of runes inscribed across the broken tiles, worn almost beyond recognition with the passing of time. 

… EAR FAIDH’AR AEN DEIREÁDH … DEIREÁD … AE … AIDH’AR

… ENY ... CHAE … INE … RAET ...

Dandelion, who vaguely felt cheated in the absence of splendid statues and marvelous carvings, traced the runes with his fingertips. For a time he was silent, biting his lip in concentration. “ _The world began in ending and will end in beginning_ ,” he recited finally.

Geralt’s back conveyed ‘unimpressed’ with astonishing eloquence. “Sounds about right,” he muttered in a sour tone. “I’ve heard enough of the same from the elves to last me a lifetime.” 

“That’s only the first line, though. What’s the other? There isn’t enough of it left to guess.”

“I suppose we’ll never know. Alas.”

“You’re the most prosaic, lackadaisical creature - “

The witcher glanced backward. “You’ve got birdshit all over your sleeve.”

“We don’t know what this place is,” Dandelion insisted, not letting himself be thrown off his stride. “Aren’t you at least a little curious?” 

“Not a bit. I know damn well what it is. A dismal ruin where we’re spending the night because you couldn’t keep - ” Geralt broke off and was still for a moment. “Stay by the fire,” he said sharply, uncoiling to his feet and drawing his sword in a single brief motion. “Do you hear me?” He was gone before Dandelion managed to nod.

Beyond the small circle of firelight it was very dark, the moon a thin crescent that kept slipping under the clouds. Dandelion's body felt stiff, skin crawling with nervous tension, and the sights and smells and sounds of the woods did little to soothe him. The trees looked alive in the wind.

He imagined a host of elven wraiths, misty riders on misty horses, converging on him, riding in a ring, swiping at him with ghostly blades. Everywhere he turned the wraith-host surrounded him, vengeful fire in the hollows of their eyes. He could almost hear the voices of the dead whispering in his mind, a grief-stricken wail rising to an atonal pitch.

He fumbled for the waterskin. It sloshed, half-empty, as he raised it to his lips and gulped a mouthful, then splashed some water on his face. It was wretchedly cold but at least it snapped him back into consciousness. Then again, he wasn’t sure if the chill he felt was from the water. He lowered his head, trying to steady his breath.

Melitele! What possessed them to take shelter here?

Something squealed, unseen, the sound cut short.

Filled with unreasoning terror, eyes shut tight, Dandelion fell to his knees and groped his way across the cracked marble, crawling away from the noise. His breath hissed through clenched teeth. His hands found something and he clutched at it with stiff fingers. 

A leather boot? 

Cautiously he opened one eye a sliver. The witcher was looking down at him, his face unreadable as stone.

Dandelion struggled to his feet, breathing hard. “Bloody buggering hell, Geralt! You scared the life out of me!”

“So I see,” Geralt said mildly. He didn’t sound especially mocking. In his right hand he held a coney carcass by the ears. From his left dangled something that might have passed for a woman’s head - if not for the foot-long tongue that lolled out of a mouth full of jagged teeth.

They settled by the fire once more. Dandelion busied himself with gathering the tattered shreds of his dignity. The witcher began skinning the rabbit. The hideous head rested on the floor between them and glared, its baleful eyes reflecting firelight.

Not only did it bleed all over the place, it stank something fierce. 

The bard pinched his nose shut; it didn’t help much. “Just what on earth is this?” he groused finally, having sufficiently recovered his spirit.

“Supper,” Geralt said shortly.

“I hope you don’t intend to eat _that_.” Dandelion pointed at the head.

The witcher paused in the process of skinning the coney. “ _That_ is a hundred crowns for the tongue and another fifty for the teeth.”

“Tell me you don’t mean to cut out the tongue and pull out the teeth. That’s disgusting.”

“Of course I mean to. Unless you’d like to assist?” 

Dandelion made a gagging sound, shuddering for good measure. “Could you at least put it somewhere out of sight? Please?”

The witcher rolled his eyes but got up, grabbed the thing by the hair as if it was a bucket and not a revolting, foul-smelling monster head, and carried it over to the other side of the pavilion. Dandelion could still see it out of the corner of his eye but he figured it could have been worse.

Geralt returned to the fire, pausing to fish around in his saddlebags. As a result four large potatoes landed in Dandelion’s lap. 

The bard stared at them, nonplussed. “What am I to do with these? We’ve got no cook-pot.”

“Put them in the coals. They’ll be ready when the meat is.” 

“Did you learn that in Kovir?”

“Potatoes don’t grow in Kovir. It’s too bloody cold and the soil is all wrong.” The witcher picked up the rabbit’s carcass and his hands resumed their movements, parting skin from flesh with unthinking competence. “I never want to set foot there again if I can help it. That's what I learned in Kovir.”

Dandelion’s eyebrows rose. “Foregoing your mind-blowing knowledge of agriculture for the moment, let me see if I got this right. You’ve missed potatoes so much that you carry them in your saddlebags?”

“I carry them in my saddlebags because an old woman thought she had a monster in her cellar and pressed them on me as payment.” 

“And did she? Have a monster in her cellar?”

“No. It was a badger.”

“So you heroically rid her of a badger and she paid you in potatoes?”

The witcher’s eyes were steady and calm. “She meant well. It was easier to accept than to argue.” He set aside the skinned coney and wiped his knife on a tuft of grass. “There’s also this,” he said, reaching into his saddlebags once again and producing a squat demijohn. 

Dandelion brightened at first, then eyed it suspiciously. Whatever was in it looked black as pitch. He thought about it for all of two seconds before he shrugged. “Give it here.” 

Geralt complied, watching him keenly. 

The bard sputtered as he drank, dark liquid running in rivulets from the corners of his mouth. “Plum and rye hooch,” he declared, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “And not half bad at that.”

“Lucky. It might have been fermented sheep blood for all I knew.”

“Now there’s a pleasant thought.” Dandelion made a face. “And you gave it to me without any warning?”

Geralt wrestled the demijohn from him. “You would’ve deserved it,” he said. He took a long swig, grunted, shook himself and drank again.

Dandelion opened his mouth to retort and snapped it shut. He didn’t feel like needling the witcher just then. Between his rugged looks and gruff responses, sometimes monosyllabic, sometimes sardonic, it was easy to forget the man had a heart the size of the Continent. Dandelion liked to be reminded of it now and then.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dandelion's ballad isn't my own poor attempt at poetry. The poetry is actually quite good but it's the lyrics to a Russian song (by Sergei Chigrakov) - and conveying Russian idioms in English, in a way that doesn't come across as Yoda-speak, is a major bitch. Which is why I took some liberties with translation. I didn't even try to rhyme but concentrated on the connotation/general feel. If anyone cares to hear the song, there's a link and an English translation, such as it is, in the post-chapter notes. It's just a dude with an acoustic guitar - but the song has this sense of overflowing, madcap nostalgia that's so very intensely Slavic. The idea of Dandelion composing it while watching Geralt angst over Yennefer served as an inspiration for this story.

The fire was flickering low. The witcher fed it carefully, branch by branch, until it blazed and sent sparks into the night. He tipped his head back, gazing at the sky. There were no stars. Poking a long branch into the core of the embers he watched a thin line of flame lick at the underside of it.

*****

Torches sputtered on either side of the tall archway. He passed beneath it and continued down the hall. Flagstones echoed under his bootheels. A single sunbeam, golden specks of dust shimmering in its haze, cut through the shadows and gave just enough light to make it seem even darker. It was always dark in Kaer Morhen. 

He felt tired, drained. There was no telling when the attack would come and the waiting wore on the nerves. But he’d been tense since the day he’d arrived and Yen had dumped him in the lake. They hadn’t spoken much after that. It was wretched but he didn’t know what to say. She’d hardly looked in his direction unless it was related to Uma’s curse - and even then with a cold, reproving expression that made him want to put his fist through a wall. It had been easier to give in to watching the way she brushed her hair out of her eyes or bit her lip as she wrote down some formula. 

He hadn’t counted on the distraction of those lips when he could remember what they tasted like; how, at odd moments, his attention would be seized by her profile carved in warm ivory in the firelight; the stab of muted pain at the sound of her voice. Sometimes he’d forget. If she wasn't in his field of view he could stop checking his thoughts and concentrate on the task at hand. But sooner or later she would come too near and he would be caught by her proximity and the scent of her hair - everything he’d been trying and failing to ignore.

Her anger seemed to have mellowed by the time he’d returned with Ciri; he'd gotten a kiss and some reassuring tender looks. It had been the first time in weeks they touched and he had realized how much he’d wanted it and feared it. He’d been hoping she would come to him but the night had crawled on and there’d been no sign of her. Whatever had passed between them in the moment, nothing had changed. And as he’d tossed and turned, unable to sleep, he couldn’t help but ask himself if it was worth it, this anxiety and humiliation of having to wait for her favors. He’d thought they’d moved past it a long time ago.

He paused at the entrance to the kitchen, brought up short. He’d expected to hear a tumult of voices from behind the closed door but there was only one. 

It was Ciri who spoke. 

“... willing to risk your lives for my sake - and I am grateful for that. I don’t have the words to tell you how grateful. But I will not stand here and listen to you malign someone dear to me. You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Geralt took a breath and pushed the door open. 

Ciri hadn’t screamed, hadn’t even raised her voice, but her words seemed to have shattered the air and linger like a thundercloud. Everyone gathered in the room watched her as warily as they might the weather. She had learned much from Yen, gods help him.

“Then again,” Ciri went on, after a fleeting glance at him, “some of you do. You were there, Triss. You were there, in Rivia. Or have you conveniently forgotten, in the two years you pretended to be her?” 

Triss’ hand closed jerkily around her mug. Eskel heaved a mighty sigh. Everyone else sat very still, as if trapped with a dangerous beast that could be provoked by a single movement or word. 

_Someone told her_ , Geralt thought, bristling. _She’s been back for all of a day and already someone told her._

“Ciri, that’s enough,” he said firmly. 

He forgot she wasn’t a child anymore, not that he’d had any luck stopping her from speaking her mind back then.

She turned to him. “And you, Geralt - you, of all people. I heard what Eskel said to you last night. ‘She plays you, how can you trust her?’ And all you could come up with was some mealy-mouthed ‘It is what it is with a sorceress’? Did you know she’d stopped breathing by the time I got her out of that boat? She died, Geralt. She died trying to heal you.” 

In the silence that followed Zoltan said, “Lass makes a fair point.” 

“Oh please,” Keira Metz cut in. “Surely the girl is exaggerating.”

“She’s not,” Triss said softly. “Rafford’s Resuscitation, the two-stage quickening from. And Yenna - She was all but drained. It was right after that Alzur’s Thunder that turned into a hailstorm.” She kept her eyes on her hands where they clutched the mug. “She tried it at least four times. Maybe more.”

“That’s simply not possible,” Keira declared.

“I watched her do it. I stood there and watched… and I did nothing. I was - gods - I couldn’t - ”

“What good is your remorse, Triss? You’ve done your level best to keep them apart.” Ciri’s voice was quiet and flat, as expressionless as her face, but it might have as well been the snap of a whip.

Geralt looked at Triss, at the way the color drained from her face, and felt pity. “You go too far, Ciri,” he said, scowling.

“Do I?” Ciri’s eyes narrowed to angry slits. “I think I haven’t gone far enough. Did you know her hands still pain her even now, after what was done to her in Stygga? And where were you, Geralt?” Her gaze locked with his and didn’t spare him for a long moment. "Oh yes, that’s right. You were in Toussaint, fucking Fringilla Vigo.” 

Geralt’s chest tightened with a quick wrench of pain. She couldn’t possibly know about this, she had no way of knowing - 

“You didn’t think I knew, did you?” For a wild second he wondered if she too could read his mind. It wasn’t a comfortable thought. “Well, I do. I Saw you. What a grand time the two of you had while Vilgefotz was shoving tubes up Yennefer’s nose and breaking her fingers. I’m willing to bet you didn’t know Bonhart tried to rape her, either. She stuck the whoreson with a fork, mangled fingers be damned. I Saw that too. But you wouldn’t know about this because you never asked. You never asked. You were too afraid to learn all of it.” Ciri paused, as if suddenly out of breath. “She knew what awaited her and she went anyway. For me. For me.” 

Geralt wished the torchlight wasn’t on his face. He didn't want everyone to see he was fighting back tears. “Ciri,” he said and didn’t know how to continue. He put a hand on her arm.

Ciri clamped her mouth shut and thrust out her chin. She didn’t shake him off but she took a step back. Then she said, “I love you, Geralt. I do. But right now I can’t even look at you,” and swept past him.

It cut deep, making something dull and cold lodge in his chest as he watched her walk away.

“Well.” Lambert gave his patented snort. “That was - ”

“The Lion Cub of Cintra,” Mousesack said, stabbing the air with a gnarled finger.

“I was going to say ‘educational’ but sure, let’s go with that. She did just rip the famous White Wolf a new one.”

Vesemir flattened his hands atop the table. “For gods' sake, shut your mouth, you wretch.”

Geralt stopped listening.

When he stepped outside dusk was falling, the clouds in the west a deep purple-gray. Ciri’s shape grew smaller and smaller until it blended into the settling night. He followed her slowly along the narrow footpath, still unsure of what to say, feeling battered and hollow inside except for a vague fear that slithered somewhere deep in his gut. 

He found her seated on an old cedar bench behind the keep and stopped in his tracks. She wasn’t alone. Yennefer sat beside her, wrapped in a fur-trimmed cloak. As always the impact of her presence was like a physical blow.

“... but unlike you, Your Royal Highness, I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth,” she was saying. 

They were out of earshot - for anyone but a witcher. Geralt didn’t mean to eavesdrop, not really. But he wasn’t ready to face them just yet, no more than he could force himself to leave. He stayed back, lurking like a ghost in the shadows of the keep. 

“I know,” Ciri said, and something in her tone made Yennefer’s shoulders stiffen.

“What do you know?” she asked, very carefully, catching Ciri’s chin in her hand.

Ciri tilted her head, freeing herself from the grasp, but she did it gently and she kept her eyes on Yennefer’s face. “Everything,” she said, her voice soft. “I Saw.”

There was a long pause. “All of it?” Yennefer asked finally.

“All of it,” Ciri said. “Before and after,” and she was still looking Yennefer straight in the face. 

Geralt had no idea what they were talking about but from where he stood he could see Yennefer’s hands, clenched into fists in her lap. “Did you tell - ”

Ciri shook her head. “It’s not my place. You can tell him yourself if you wish.”

“He would not understand,” Yennefer said, after another silence. “There’s no cruelty in him.”

“And you love him for it. But I do understand. And I don’t pity you; I want you to know that.”

Yennefer’s head came up sharply, as though stung. “No?”

“No. It’s made you who you are.”

“And who am I?” Yennefer asked, with a mocking edge nothing short of savage.

“Someone I can call Mother and be proud of it.”

What he saw on Yennefer’s face, then, made Geralt close his eyes for an instant. When he looked at them again they were holding each other, Yennefer’s cheek resting on Ciri’s hair. The twilight swathed them in a gray-blue veil that made their features hazy, dreamlike. Everything he ever wanted was right in front of him - as unreachable as the stars.

Sorrow rose, inexorable as the tide, and mingled with it, guilt. He didn’t belong in this moment. There was nothing left for him to do but turn away and go back to the keep.

*****

A chord melody, poignant and lovely, jolted him out of his thoughts. Geralt looked up. Dandelion sat propped by the saddlebags, strumming his lute, chewing on a blade of grass.

“Get some sleep,” Geralt said, his voice rough in his throat. 

“Later,” the bard waived him off. He had a faraway look about him Geralt knew well. “Believe it or not, your having a sulk is good for something.”

The witcher rose up and reached for the demijohn at Dandelion's side, gripping it in both hands as he swallowed the last of the hooch. “I’m not having a sulk,” he muttered, half to himself. 

“Whatever. Your manly brooding is good for something.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Inspiration.” Dandelion began to play again, the same melody but with partial chords this time. After a few beats his voice joined in.

_Calm me with your eyes, calm me with your soul_   
_I stand before you as before the gods_   
_Embrace me tight and hold me close_   
_T’will make it easier to forget and fade away_   
_To forget and fade away_

Geralt felt his mouth twist. “Glad to be of service.”

Dandelion was Dandelion; there was really no point in getting angry with him. The thought ought to have calmed him but somehow it only made him angrier. He must have looked it, enough for Dandelion to raise his hands in a defensive gesture. A scroll he’d been scribbling on the back of slipped off his lap. Geralt caught it before the wind could blow it into the fire.

Vellum paper, fine-grained and smooth, exorbitantly expensive. He turned it over.

The letter was short, only a few lines penned in a slanted, elegant hand. He would have known that writing anywhere.

_Dear Bard,_

_The funds have been replenished. Make use of them at your discretion - so long as there is discretion, in every sense of the word. My thanks for the timely resolution of the previous matter._

_Sincerely,_

_Yennefer_

The witcher read the letter twice before Dandelion snatched it out of his hand. “Thank you. It would’ve been inconvenient - ”

“Dandelion.”

“Hold that thought, will you? I need to write this down.”

“Dandelion,” Geralt raised his voice sharply.

The bard lifted his head, frowning. “No need to shout. What’s gotten into you, anyway? Has that rotgut finally gone to your - ” He glanced down at the letter. “Oh. Damn.”

“What is Yennefer talking about?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Gold, Geralt. She’s talking about gold.”

Geralt leveled a hard look at him.

“She’s going to turn me into a mouse,” Dandelion said glumly. “Or a frog. I'll be croaking for the rest of my days. If I am really lucky, that is.”

“Tell me.”

Dandelion folded the letter carefully, smoothing the creases. “Private correspondence is called ‘private’ for a reason, Geralt.” He tapped the folded letter against his palm and glared at the witcher.

Geralt flinched. “Of course. Forgive me.” His smile felt tight as a grimace. A muscle twitched along his jaw.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” The bard gave a long-suffering sigh. “How do you suppose I managed to bail you out of that prison cell in Toussaint?”

“You told me it was through the duchess.”

“The duchess and a fat bag of gold.”

“Yennefer’s gold. You bailed me out with Yennefer’s gold.”

“Write her a thank you letter,” Dandelion suggested. “You can start it with _Dear Friend_.”

The witcher stiffened, eyes narrowing. “How do you know about that?”

“You showed me the one she wrote to you, all those years ago. Remember?”

“I do,” Geralt said tersely. “I remember very well that I never showed that letter to anyone.” 

Dandelion shrugged. “Perhaps, then, I read it over your shoulder. What does it matter? It’s been more than a decade. Oh, but it was something, that letter; Yennefer does have a way with words, I’ll give her that. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you quite so... distraught? No, that doesn’t really describe it. ‘Agitated’? ‘Addled’? Hmm. Better but still not altogether there. Wait, I know! ‘Besides yourself’. Yes, that’s it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you quite so besides yourself.”

Geralt raised his eyes and met the bard’s amused stare. He saw a mute apology in Dandelion’s face and something like a flash of pity. The witcher looked away first. 

There was a long silence after that, and the harsh cry of a night-bird far away, and the crackling of the fire. 

Memory yanked him back to that awful night when he and Yen stood by a funeral pyre. His words had sunk into the silence between them. She had turned away; her hand had gone to her face, stilled in midair and dropped again. He’d been too caught up in his grief and the ebbing rush of adrenaline and his worry for Ciri and hadn’t understood until later that something precious and irretrievable had ended that day.

_So calm me with your eyes, calm me with your soul_   
_Grant me pain and pleasure, mark my skin_   
_Become my healing, be the light in my window_   
_Say, “You’re dear to me” and something more_   
_Say, “You’re dear to me” and something more_

The last ringing note died away in the night. Geralt stood, his heart and his limbs heavy with misery. He took two strides, three, before a creeping sense of alarm stirred in him. He turned his head. The second line of runes blazed, shone like a beacon, spilling pale blue glow across the ruined tiles. The air thrummed with magic, raw and powerful. His medallion jerked against his chest, a useless warning delivered too late. A brilliant wall of light, shaped like a circle and spinning at the edges, appeared in front of him - between Dandelion and him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["With Your Eyes And Your Soul" by Sergei Chigrakov (YouTube)](https://youtu.be/nKCCooW-8DU)
> 
> Calm me with your eyes, calm me with your soul  
> Soothe my aching heart  
> Grant me pain and pleasure, mark my skin  
> Become my healing, be the light in my window  
> Be the light in my window
> 
> Hold me with your eyes, hold me with your soul  
> I stand before you as before the gods  
> Embrace me tight and hold me close  
> It'll make it easier to forget and fade away  
> To forget and fade away
> 
> Kiss me with your eyes, kiss me with your soul  
> Easier to tear all threads at once  
> But life’s thread is fragile, don’t toy with it  
> Somewhere lies a sleepless child who looks so much like me  
> Who looks so much like me
> 
> So calm me with your eyes, calm me with your soul  
> Soothe my sore heart  
> To me you’re an angel, without you there’s only gloom  
> Say, “You’re dear to me” and something more  
> Say, “You’re dear to me” and something more


	5. Chapter 5

It was dark where he was but he wasn’t dead, or at least he didn’t think so. He had hands; he felt them. By the stinging of his palms he understood that he had fallen on the ground. His eyes were open and blind. Dandelion dragged himself to kneel, found his feet and staggered, flinging out both arms. His fingertips met a solid surface, smooth and cool to the touch. His vision was clearing - some distance ahead moonlight, bright enough to cast shadow, slanted through the branches of a flowering tree. He took a step forward.

He stood at the edge of a small glade ringed by whispering birches. Behind him was an archway wrought of fine marble, pristine white and gleaming like a winter’s first snow. The immaculate lines of its slender columns had a stark beauty tempered with an intricate pattern of vines carved into the keystone.

Overhead the moon hung full and bright. Dandelion blinked at it - only a few minutes ago the sky was overcast and the moon no more than a faint sliver glimpsed through the clouds.

A dozen paces from the blossoming tree a tall slab of blue-gray chalcedony jutted up, translucent in the moonlight. He wandered toward it. There was no path and his footsteps were soundless on the grass; crushed beneath his boots it gave off a faint sweet odor as if sun-warmed.

When he neared the stone he saw there were runes etched along its glossy surface. In its depths cerulean motes floated like petals on water. They were so bright it hurt the eye but he couldn’t look away. He found himself staring into a vast emptiness, into infinite black, and through it stars fell, trailing gouts of white-blue fire, beautiful and unending…

…Someone thumped his shoulder. It almost jerked his head upright - except he didn’t want to be distracted. A string of obscenities, delivered rapidly and with an enviable fluency, fell on his ears. Dandelion winced, annoyed, and waved the intruder off. The irksome pest took hold of his elbow and yanked him rudely backwards.

He whirled about. The world seemed preternaturally slow and he thought he could number each coal-black curl framing a pale face. He shook himself, trying to focus. He knew that slender silhouette, those unsettling violet eyes. “Yennefer?”

The sorceress gave him a hard-eyed look. “Under no circumstances are you to touch that menhir again. Do you hear?”

Dandelion took a shallow breath. His heart felt battered in his chest. “I hear you,” he said stiffly. His voice sounded too loud to his ears.

She frowned. “Are you all right?”

"I think so," he answered in a near-whisper.

"What did you see?"

“Stars. Dying endlessly, falling and falling.” His eyes stung with unshed tears.

“Stars.” Yennefer pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’ve had the witcher in a tizzy for nearly two weeks - ”

“What?”

“ - while you stood here stargazing.” Dandelion stared at her, dumbstruck. She gestured impatiently. “You vanished right before his eyes. He realized it must be some sort of portal but he couldn’t enter it so he came asking for help. Curiously someone had provided him with my address.” She tilted her head to glare at him.

“I, uh - ” He’d have probably felt more flustered if he wasn’t still reeling from the news that he’d been lost to the world for days. “I may have accidentally shown him your letter.”

“Accidentally.”

“I swear on my - ”

The sorceress sighed. “It doesn’t matter now. In the end it might have saved your life. Assuming we don’t get torn to shreds on the way out.”

“How do you mean?”

She didn’t answer. Crossing his arms Dandelion watched her survey the menhir. She leaned in to study the runes and he couldn’t ignore the fluttering in his gut. He left her to it and made his way to the tree that had caught his attention earlier.

It was gnarled in a way he’d never seen, twisted around its bole as it grew, but it looked old and strong, its roots deep. Dandelion paused beneath the graceful drooping branches with their delicate blossoms, three-pointed petals edged with pale pink. Clear drops seeped from the filaments, glistening like tears.

“ _Mùchadh Crann_ ,” Yennefer said without looking at him. “The Mourning Tree. Born of the grief for all fair things lost, as elven legends would have it. A remnant of the ages when they could not shed tears but for the sorrow of others.”

“I’ve never heard of anything like that.”

“Neither had I - until recently. Your little jaunt resulted in a great deal of research.”

“I take it you know what this place is?”

“ _Yr Ardd Lleuad_.”

Dandelion had thought himself fluent in Elder Speech but he didn’t understand a word. It seemed to be a dialect he was unfamiliar with.

“It means ‘The Moon Garden’,” Yennefer explained, sounding distracted. “The flowers shrink by daylight; only at night do they bloom.” She was circling the stone for the second time, glancing over her shoulder at the archway as though measuring distance. “There are places that exist between being and not-being. _Yr Ardd Lleuad_ is one.” She shrugged. “Truth to tell, I’d have thought it no more than a fable if you haven’t somehow managed to remove the warding seal. Without intent, no less, if I am to believe the witcher.”

“I don’t know about any wards,” Dandelion said. “We only thought to set camp for the night.”

“How do you accidentally invoke a complex ancient elven spell?” The sorceress strode over to his side and stood with her hands braced on her hips. The breeze stirred her dark hair.

“I’ve no idea. What does Geralt think?”

“What does Geralt think?” She laughed. “Unless I miss my guess Geralt thinks you’re dead and it’s his fault.”

“Yennefer,” Dandelion said quietly, unable to keep his mouth shut even if he knew he was bound to regret it. “Have mercy on him, will you?”

“Why should I?”

“Because he loves you and he’s sure you’ll never forgive him and it's making him miserable.”

It seemed to take an age for her gaze to settle on him, the full weight of it coming to bear. “He wrought his own misery,” she said.

“Don’t you think he knows that?”

She smiled with bitter irony. “If he knows he might at least say ‘I’m sorry’.” Her voice trembled, with anger or some other emotion. “Instead he offered to pay for my help.”

Dandelion let out a sigh. “Bloody idiot,” he muttered.

“That bloody idiot is the reason you might survive this after all.”

“Consistency, thy name is woman.” The bard caught his breath in a laugh. 

Color flushed Yennefer’s cheekbones. She drew herself up. “Stay out of this, bard,” she said shortly. He figured it was probably good advice.

His gaze came to rest on a vine twining round the trunk of the Mourning Tree. It bore white pendant flowers that emitted a pallid glow. He reached out and touched one.

Yennefer eyed it, her expression speculative, and stroked the petals with a fingertip. “ _Aiféala Blath_ ,” she said as the flower shuddered, folding into limpness.

“Remorse Blossom?”

“It grieves for those slain by your hand.”

Dandelion shivered, looking around. “And these?” He pointed at bell-shaped blossoms bent on slender stalks, fluttering in their bed of shadows with a haunting, fretful sound.

“Sorrow-bells. They sound for every senseless act of cruelty that takes place in the world. I imagine they are seldom silent.”

 _Shaping beauty out of sorrow_ , Dandelion thought. _And they wonder why we envy them._

Yennefer walked with a purpose back to the menhir. He followed her. “Can you read those runes?” he asked.

“ _Trí Aenye an Ichaer, trí Elaine an Hiraeth_.”

He understood most of that, at least. _By Fire and Blood, by Beauty and_ … He could neither translate nor guess the last word.

“What does _Hiraeth_ mean?”

“Grief, sorrow ... longing? That’s probably the closest - ”

A thought occurred to Dandelion and he interrupted, “Does brooding qualify?”

“I suppose.”

“Then I think I know what happened.”

“Do you now.” The sorceress raised her eyebrows at him.

“I think so. _By Fire and Blood, by Beauty_ _and_ … fine, let’s say _Longing_. We had a campfire. Geralt killed some - I don’t know what it was, some monster-hag. He brought its head; I remember it bled everywhere.”

There was a dark glitter of amusement in Yennefer's eyes. “Which one of you would have been ‘beauty’?”

“Not us,” Dandelion shook his head. “You see, Geralt was - ” he made a vague gesture, “well, he’s Geralt. You know what I mean. That took care of the ‘brooding’ part. And I was writing a new ballad. I sang it just before - before the seal opened, or whatever you want to call it.”

“That's an excellent theory,” Yennefer said after a time.

“Thank you.”

“Now stop talking if you wish to get out of here alive.” Her fingers brushed the moonlit surface of the menhir, trailing faint blue magic along the patterns carved into it. Dandelion took a cautious step back. There was power in the precise calligraphy of the runes, gathering and unspent, and it seemed to him that the stone began to pulse like a heart to an unseen rhythm. “This has to be executed precisely. We’ll have mere seconds only, so listen well. Go stand by the archway - ”

“And don’t touch anything?”

“That too. But more importantly, wait for me. Under no circumstances are you to go in alone. It’s too dangerous. I’ll have to shield you or else you aren’t likely to survive, and since we won’t be moving at a mortal pace I’ll never catch up if you get too far ahead. Understand? You’ll be stuck, or shredded to bits, or both.”

“Don’t go in alone. I’ve got it.” Dandelion dragged in a breath and let it out with a shudder.

Yennefer nodded sharply. “Good.”

She knelt at the base of the chalcedony slab. Dandelion hurried to the archway, turning to watch her once he reached it. She began to whisper under her breath. Power gathered, wholly unlike anything he’d ever experienced - something primal and endless that trembled in his very bones. Pressure built all around. Every branch, every stem, every blade of grass stood motionless, waiting.

The center of the stone flared, impossibly bright. A shaft of white fire tinged with gold burst from it. Brilliant light surged through the air and a force struck like a hammer.

Dandelion clapped both hands over his aching ears, his insides reverberating. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a faint shimmer ripple between the columns of the archway. Yennefer’s figure blurred, moving with inhuman speed, each motion fanning in his vision. Before he took another breath she had a grip on his arm, surprisingly strong, and he was dragged sideways into the space beneath the arch.


	6. Chapter 6

“Dandelion! Are you hurt?” Geralt wound an arm around the bard’s chest and hauled him half-upright.

Dandelion felt cautiously at his face, his ribs, his limbs. “No,” he said, sounding almost surprised. “Yennefer said she was going to shield me. It must have worked.” He cast about. “Is she all right?”

The witcher forced himself to his feet, pulling Dandelion with him. “She hasn’t come out.” His own voice sounded uncharacteristically terrified.

They waited by the campfire that he’d long since moved to the other side of the pavilion. Sick dread sat in his stomach, choked his throat closed. And it seemed that, for once, Dandelion could think of nothing to say. He had reached for his lute, taken one look at Geralt’s face and thought better of it. It was almost unbearable with the adrenaline coursing through him, making his hands shake and his fingers flex with the need to do something. Like Skellige all over again, after he’d watched Ciri disappear into that portal at the top of Tor Gvalch'ca. Only he hadn’t been alone then. He remembered meeting Yen’s eyes and reading his own anguish there, and the memory made him shiver. He didn’t know if that had been better or worse.

He looked up at the clouded sky; it was just past noon. Ravens perched in the shadows of the ruins, drowsy in the midday sun. Wind rustled in the tall pine-tops.

His medallion stirred, began to flutter, and his breath caught. There was a sound like shattered glass and a terrible sharp tug; it shook the ground. Light flexed, coruscating. Geralt squinted, wincing at the brightness. Time stopped, or maybe only his heart did as a slender figure came into view, lit with a faint silvery luminosity, limbs frozen in motion broken into a multitude of component parts.

“Yen,” he said. It came out hoarse and he swallowed, trying to ease his throat. He was startled to see the deep circles beneath her eyes, the hollowness of her cheeks. He had a brief but vivid flash of her looking like that once before. He breathed in, breathed out and shoved the memories down. There was something he needed to say. He’d always been afraid of saying it - afraid that the words would hang between them, tangible. It was the last thing he was afraid of now.

She stood still for a moment, then stepped closer and stopped again. “I told you not to call me that.” Violet eyes fixed on Geralt, flicked to Dandelion and back to him. “Are you pleased, then? Have I earned my coin?”

Geralt lowered his eyes, unsaid words locked behind clenched teeth. 

Her shoulders straightened. She took another step and stumbled. Blood ran from her nose, trickling down her chin. She frowned, brought a hand to her face and stared at her blood-stained fingers. Geralt caught her around the waist and lifted her in his arms.

“Let go of me,” she said sharply. 

He ignored it, carrying her over to his bedroll. When he sat her down she pushed herself away from him, grimacing, and set up straight, her hands folded in her lap. She said nothing more. Turning away Geralt poured water from a skin into a tin cup. She fixed him with a violet stare, unnervingly intense, when he proffered it to her but she reached for it with both hands. He watched her take a sip and spit pink-tinged water onto the cracked tiles. She drained the cup, her throat working.

He wasn’t sure what she’d seen in his face once she put it down but her jaw tensed. “It’s only a nosebleed,” she said, her glare and the edge in her voice keeping him at bay.

In the end Dandelion went over to her and arranged the saddlebags so she could lean back against them. “Thank you,” he told her, “for saving my life for the second time.”

She regarded him with half-leaded eyes. “It’s good you made it in one piece.”

Apparently she wasn’t feeling hostile toward him because she let him clean the blood off her face without any fuss. Geralt was grateful for that, at least; he couldn’t stand the sight of it.

Drawing one knee to her chest she wrapped an arm around it, her head lolling back. “If you don’t mind,” she said to the bard, “there’s a flask in my saddlebags - ”

Dandelion bent down to retrieve it. Geralt snatched the flask from him before he could give it to her and began to unstopper it.

“It’s whisky,” Yennefer said without looking at him. Geralt sniffed at it anyway before passing it to her. She took a long pull. “You can stop hovering now. I’m merely tired.”

The witcher gritted his teeth. “I know what you look like merely tired and this isn’t it. I can also smell the depletion, if you’ve forgotten.”

“That’s right. Yet another joy of you I’ve forgotten.” She lifted her head, her profile chiseled against the cloud-laden sky. “Worry not, witcher. I won’t be adding healing expenses to your payment.”

Geralt opened his mouth and closed it again when Dandelion put a hand on his arm. Yennefer darted a mocking glance his way and raised the flask in salute.

“We can stay the night here,” Dandelion suggested, clearly anxious to change the subject.

“I am not sleeping in the woods if I can help it,” Yennefer said categorically. “The inn is ten leagues away.”

“Thirteen,” Geralt corrected.

“A few hours’ ride. Let’s be going before it gets dark.” She almost managed to sound normal.

“You're in no shape to travel and you know it.”

Dandelion, watching, shook his head.

Yennefer’s lips curled in a sneer. “You are not my keeper,” she said softly, viciously. “I’ll do as I please.”

“Not while I - ” Geralt didn’t get to finish that sentiment because Dandelion grabbed his arm and, by dint of surprise, managed to propel him several paces away. After that he shook off the bard’s grip but followed him down the crumbling steps.

Dandelion came to a stop once they were safely out of Yennefer’s earshot. “What is the matter with you?” he hissed. “How long have you known the woman? Telling her she can’t do something is the surest way to make her do it. Quit riling her, for fuck’s sake! She’s got enough to deal with.”

Geralt drew in a shaky breath. “I know. Don’t you think I know it? It’s my doing - ”

“Oh, bollocks! It’s not your doing. And anyway, this isn’t about your guilt.” The bard met his gaze and continued more gently, “Geralt, you can’t mollycoddle her; surely you know that by now. She isn’t Triss. Give her some space.”

The witcher pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Dandelion was right; of course he was. And it wasn’t as if he didn’t know better. Half of what he’d said to Yen, he’d known it had been the wrong thing to say before he’d finished saying it. Somewhere between the coldness of the distance between them and the feverish fear that she might be gone he had lost his wits.

“I’m not handling this too well, am I,” he muttered. In hindsight he felt ashamed enough to want to slap himself and wouldn’t have minded if Dandelion did it for him.

The bard only gave him a wry look. “What on earth possessed you to offer her coin, of all things?”

“I thought if we treated it as a - a business transaction - it’d be easier.” Geralt sighed. “That was a mistake.”

“You think?”

They didn’t speak for a minute, until Dandelion broke the silence. “I suppose an inn has its advantages. She’ll rest better for it.”

Geralt gathered himself with an effort. Once again the bard had a point - and there was no avoiding the travel now. “Will you ride double with her?” he asked and couldn’t help adding bitterly, “I can’t imagine she’ll agree to ride with me.”

“Of course she’ll agree. You just have to provide her with an excuse she can accept. Tell her the black is much sturdier. It’s not a lie, either.”

Geralt considered it for a moment and felt the corners of his mouth lift in an almost-smile. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said, clapping Dandelion on the shoulder.

“Well, well,” the bard drawled. “At long last.”

Geralt bit his lip, chagrined.

Dandelion snorted. “Don’t be daft. I’d be stuck gods only know where if it wasn’t for you. And for her.” He glanced in the direction of the campfire. The witcher did too, and whatever was written on his face, Dandelion must have caught it. “She’ll be all right,” he said steadily, “if only to prove you wrong. She’s the most contrary creature I know.”

Geralt did smile at that.


	7. Chapter 7

The bay gelding gave a low whicker of greeting at his approach. Dandelion patted it fondly on the neck. The dappled gray mare that had to be Yennefer’s mount raised its fine head, eyeing him with prick-eared interest. He made quick work of saddling the horses, watching Geralt talk to the sorceress. She didn’t take his hand, struggling upright on her own, but she allowed him to help her mount his horse before climbing in the saddle behind her. She still looked stiff and prickly as a sea urchin but it was far better than pointedly cringing at his touch.

Dandelion gathered the mare’s reins and it fell into step with his mount as they set off. The setting sun sank under the overhanging clouds, striking a ruddy wash of light across the treetops. For a time Yennefer kept her spine rigid to make room between herself and Geralt. Dandelion wouldn’t have put it past her to ride that way for all of the thirteen leagues but, gods be praised, she unbent after a while and let her head fall back onto Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt did nothing to acknowledge it. Dandelion couldn’t tell if the slight curve to his mouth was only a trick of the shadows but he _could_ tell that the witcher ducked his head now and then, no doubt to smell her hair.

The daylight was all but gone by the time they rode up to the inn and shadows crept across the ground. The brass plaque over the entrance lit with a lantern advertised the name of the establishment: _The Next Giant Inn_.

“I’ll go see about the rooms,” the bard offered, dismounting.

Geralt nodded absently, preoccupied with the sorceress in his arms.

Dandelion stepped into the stale air of the inn, debating whether to ask for two rooms or three. It proved unnecessary when the innkeeper, her arms folded under a worn-out shawl, informed him two rooms was all she had. He told her he’d take them.

The door squealed open and shut again as Geralt and Yennefer came in. She looked like her legs were about to give out and he had his arm around her waist.

The innkeeper looked them up and down with narrowed eyes. “I ain’t keen on havin’ sickness here,” she said dubiously, “an’ you don’t look none too good, lady.”

“The lady isn’t sick,” Geralt retorted, immediately bristling with protectiveness, “only tired.”

“Looks sick to me.”

“I’ll deal with it,” Dandelion murmured and slipped a room key into the witcher’s hand.

Geralt glanced at the stairs, bent and slid his free arm under Yennefer’s knees, sweeping her up before she could protest. She made a small surprised sound and flung an arm around his neck for balance.

“I can walk,” she groused but it was halfhearted at best. He said nothing as he started up the stairs. “Thank you,” Dandelion heard her say after a moment. The witcher grunted in response.

“Surely”, Dandelion said to the innkeeper, “a beautiful maiden such as yourself could find sympathy in her heart for a noblewoman kidnapped and held for ransom by vile bandits.” The rest of the tale involved a valiant rescue by a knight errant who loved the lady more than life itself and so risked all even though he knew he could never be with her. By the end of it the innkeeper - a stout harridan with flinty eyes, now bright with unshed tears - promised to make a posset, a family recipe that would ‘see the poor thing right as rain by morn, just you watch.’

Geralt, descending the stairs, smiled without humor at being addressed as ‘sir knight’ but had the sense not to protest. Together they went outside, where a stablehand was crooning to the horses, ready to lead them away once Dandelion and the witcher unfastened the saddlebags.

True to her word the innkeeper had a clay mug waiting on the counter, steaming gently. “For the lady,” she said, and watched the witcher take a sip with an approving expression, not the least bit affronted by his vigilance.

“Whatever lie you spun out for her, it worked,” Geralt said in low tones as they climbed the stairs.

Dandelion chuckled under his breath. “It wasn’t entirely a lie. Weaving fancy and reality together to pull at the heartstrings is what a bard does. And I am damn good at it, if I say so myself.”

The rickety bedside table in Yennefer’s room creaked when Geralt placed the mug next to the lit oil lamp. The sorceress, huddled under the covers, opened her eyes.

“Yen,” Geralt said quietly. He was clearly trying to keep his voice normal but Dandelion could hear the hope in it. “Do you want me to stay - ”

“No,” she said with cold finality. “And for the dozenth time, don’t call me that.”

Disappointment and sorrow flashed across the witcher’s face before he got himself under control. For a dizzying instant Dandelion wanted to grab them both and shake them until they remembered what they were to each other. Biting his lip to keep himself from talking he strode out. After a moment Geralt followed, his shoulders sagging.

They stashed their saddlebags in the other room and went down to the tavern. Supper was thick rabbit stew and shockingly decent dark ale. The witcher ate little and didn’t say a single word. He sat, listlessly crumpling his bread, and rose to his feet as soon as Dandelion swallowed the last mouthful of stew and put his spoon down.

Once they returned to their room Geralt got the fire going in the hearth, then threw himself down on the bed. Dandelion could recognize the tightness around his eyes, at the corners of his mouth; he knew the man well enough to leave him be when he fell into these moods. He rummaged around in his saddlebags until he found Yennefer’s letter with the lyrics to his last ballad scrawled on the back of it. Thank the gods he’d managed to write them down. Intent on going over them with a fresh eye he sat down in the room’s only chair.

He was nearly done with it when the witcher spoke up. “Dandelion?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve known you for nigh on thirty years.”

“I said as much, didn’t I?”

“So how is it that you’ve hardly aged?”

Dandelion winced. Of all the things for him to wonder about. “I have my secrets - ” he started but Geralt talked over him.

“Does Yennefer give you the mandrake elixir?”

“She most certainly does not,” Dandelion lied, with every ounce of conviction he could muster.

“I’ll be damned.” The witcher raised his head to stare at him. “Why does she do that?”

Dandelion sighed; there was nothing for it. “If you must know, she’s very fond of me. And why shouldn’t she be? I am devilishly charming and highly intelligent and - ”

“And most importantly, modest. Try again.”

“Fine.” The bard shifted in his chair, waving his hand flippantly. “Yennefer of Vengerberg is a staunch supporter of the arts, a true patron - “

“Dandelion.”

“I don’t know, Geralt. I never asked. Why look a gift horse in the mouth? But I imagine it’s the same reason she saved my hide twice now.”

Geralt ran his hands over his face, lacing his fingers behind his head. “And what reason is that?”

“You can’t be that dense,” Dandelion said bluntly. “Geralt, whatever else is true, she does love you. Possibly better than you deserve.”

“Quite a turnabout for you, isn't it?” There was a snide tone to the witcher’s voice Dandelion didn’t like. “I seem to recall - ”

“Yes, well. I was in Rivia with you, do you recall that? The moment of truth, so to speak.” The bard met Geralt’s eyes. “She loves you. I realize this gets in the way of your self-pity - Oh, you can glower at me all you like. Feeling sorry for yourself is what you do; I know it and you know it. So by all means, take your time with that. But when you’ve done, go talk to her and unfuck the mess you’ve made of your life.”

Geralt swung his legs over the edge of the bad and sat up. “You’re worse than a hound with a rat,” he said, mouth twisting in a bitter sneer.

“You do realize that metaphor is more unflattering to you than it is to me,” Dandelion pointed out. If the banter felt stilted, it was still comforting in its familiarity.

The witcher stared at him for a minute longer, or maybe past him. Then he hunched over, his forehead resting on his hands. After a while he got up and paced back and forth, in a room that was much too small for it.

Finally Dandelion could stand it no more. “I am going to see if she wants food,” he announced and fled.

Some ten minutes later he came back up the steps carrying a bowl of stew. The witcher came out of their room as Dandelion passed by it and took the bowl from him without so much as a word. Dandelion got one look at his face and bit back the quip he’d been about to make. The bard watched him continue down the hall, knock on the door and poke his head in Yennefer’s room. After a moment Geralt stepped inside. When the door shut behind him Dandelion looked briefly heavenward in thanks.

An hour passed and the witcher didn’t return. It had started to rain outside, the water dripping, pounding on the roof, sloshing in the trees. The lamp sputtered; the innkeeper was clearly skimping on oil. Dandelion took off his boots, put out the light and went to bed. For a time he tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy pillow, and in the end admitted to himself that he wouldn’t sleep unless he sated his curiosity first. He lifted his head, straining to make out the sounds in the other room, but couldn’t hear a thing over the patter of the rain.

He rolled out of bed and slunk down the hallway, tiptoeing to the door of Yennefer’s room. He heard Geralt say something and the sorceress reply but it was muffled by the distance and the downpour outside. The bard pressed his ear to the door. It was a good few minutes before he finally caught another sound - something between a gasp and a choked sob. He couldn't help peeping through a keyhole.

The witcher was kneeling by the bedside, his face buried in Yennefer’s hair, his shoulders shaking as she stroked the back of his head.

Dandelion slept surprisingly well despite the uncomfortable bed and didn’t wake until midmorning. As he stepped out into the hall the smell of food drifted his way from the tavern. He went down the stairs but faltered in his steps before he entered the room.

The witcher and the sorceress were sitting at a table, half-turned toward each other, faces glowing. She tore off a small piece of bread from a loaf, dipped it in honey and slipped it in his mouth. He licked her fingers and they both shivered visibly.

Dandelion turned around and went back upstairs, whistling a cheerful tune. There he scrawled a hasty note and placed it carefully on top of Geralt’s saddlebags.

“Maybe they don’t have to part, after all?” the innkeeper said, dreamy-eyed, as he walked past her counter. “They sure look like they belong together.”

Dandelion paused to grin at her. “Maybe,” he agreed, snagging an apple from a basket that sat in front of her. “If destiny sees fit to lay its claim, who can gainsay it?”

Outside the autumn air was crisp, gold-washed in the morning sun. The bard headed for the stable, tossing the apple in the air and catching it. If he hurried he could make it to Novigrad before the wine merchant closed shop for the night. He had made a bet with himself and now he owed himself a bottle of Est Est.


End file.
